Death in the Secret Garden by Richard; Forrest Page B

the center of the street with a bright-yellow raincoat containing the large black letters MVFD on its back. A hand clutching an army division patch protruded beyond the covering.
    Rocco Herbert, oblivious to his training and orders, pried the horse head patch from dead fingers. ‘Find out where Spook went and bring him in,’ he ordered an officer standing nearby.
    Father Magrusky pushed past a line of firemen and knelt by the body. He began to offer last rites. He looked up in annoyance when Rocco put his hand on the priest’s shoulder. ‘She must have them.’
    â€˜Barbara Styles is under that raincoat, Father,’ Rocco said. ‘For God’s sake, let Canon MacIntire mumble his things over her or we’ll restart the Thirty Years War.’
    The priest slowly stood. ‘You have fallen a long way from your church, Rocco Herbert.’
    â€˜It’s the nature of my profession,’ Rocco replied without a smile.
    Sergeant Vince Niles issued a low command over his hand radio. ‘You want we should storm Spook’s tree house, Chief?’
    â€˜God, no! If he is armed that would be asking for it. Leave a man at the base of the tree and check out his usual haunts: Sarge’s place, under the gazebo on the green, and look beneath all the bridges. Spook is very partial to sleeping under bridges.’
    â€˜He could be anywhere in town, Chief. When that guy roams, he really travels.’
    â€˜Just keep looking, OK?’ Rocco ordered as Happy Hansen parked the assistant medical examiner’s Pontiac next to the Fire Department’s emergency van.
    â€˜Hit and run?’ Hansen asked in nearly serious mode as he knelt by the body and lifted the raincoat.
    â€˜You tell me,’ Rocco answered.
    â€˜How about small-caliber bullet in the groin area?’ the doctor said after a cursory examination. ‘Hold on, ladies and gentlemen,’ he exclaimed. ‘This is Barbara Styles. No lover’s argument here. Barbara was faithful to her old daddy the judge all her life. Wonder where she was going. She seems to have fallen in the middle of the street halfway between Saint Anne’s and Saint James.’
    â€˜She sure in hell wasn’t on her way to Saint Anne’s,’ Rocco answered. ‘She was probably trying to get home. She and her daddy live down the street in the next block.’
    Hansen looked with interest toward the large Victorian house surrounded by an iron picket fence. ‘All those Episcopal gals are old money. Take her away as soon as the pictures are done,’ he said to the paramedics waiting nearby with a gurney. ‘Who the hell would shoot Barbara Styles, a pillar of our little ingrown community?’ Lars asked Rocco without humor.
    â€˜Good question,’ Rocco answered as the photographer finished and the paramedics loaded the body into their waiting ambulance. ‘Radio me when they locate Spook,’ he said to Sergeant Niles.
    â€˜Where will you be, Chief?’ the sergeant asked.
    Rocco gestured toward the large home down the block. ‘I’ll be at the Styles’ house. Canvass both churches and the surrounding homes to see if anyone heard or saw anything.’
    Warren Street ran parallel to the town green. Although the homes on this street were newer than those on the green, they had been built by nineteenth-century mill owners and were larger than the older but more modest colonial-era buildings in the center of town.
    An iron stag dominated the front lawn of the Styles’ house. Its raised head signaled that it was poised for flight. But that stance had not kept it from countless deer-nappings. On at least six occasions, all of which occurred on Halloween, Rocco and his men had rescued the metal animal from numerous places as varied as the town gazebo, the Connecticut River, and the high school gymnasium.
    A small sign on the lawn on the opposite side of the walk from the deer announced that the